TIGERS

I am six, at Chicago’s Brookfield Zoo, my face, along with other children, staring between the bars, staring at a tiger with orange and black fur and white underbelly.

I saw the rippling muscular grace as the tiger prowled the mock-savannah in a slow powerful three-quarter time, with a grim face. Under his belly swayed his penis from side to side as he strode.

Then he was peeing. It began as a long, low yellow stream. And, as he was turning, pivoted toward us, the long stream of urine came whipping across me and the other children just at the level of our eyes.

I cried, not sad, just shocked to be suddenly struck by this long low hot acidic panther piss. (I read yesterday rather that tiger urine actually smells like hot buttered popcorn!)

In any case, parents consoled their children. In later re-countings, they told their friends how cute it was. It was not cute. Parents regularly rob us of our dignity until we become just children without tigers.

I prefer to think it was more of an initiation, an affirmation of being one powerful animal among others.

So let live just under my skin, this warming, colored fur, these rippling muscles, this ferocious determination to release the force of beauty into the world in a long low stream.